Handprint On My Heart
by tlyxor1
Summary: A series of unrelated ficlets in which fem!Harry meets her soulmate. Or, alternatively, that one in which fem!Harry has a different name in each ficlet. Soulmate AU. Various pairings. Various fandoms. Enjoy.
1. Neville Longbottom

**Handprint on My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** A series of unrelated ficlets in which fem!Harry meets her soulmate. Various pairings. Various fandoms. Enjoy.

 **Author:** tlyxor1.

 **Of Lost Toads and Old Traditions**

 **Pairing:** Neville Longbottom/Laurel Potter (fem!Harry).

When she turns eleven, his words appear on her skin, a neat, slanted script that she later learns is described as 'copperplate'. At the time, however, she's just met Hagrid, and although she's waited her whole life to see her soul mate words, what the bearded giant has to tell her dominates her attention, wholly and completely.

Her name is Laurel Elizabeth Potter, she is 11 years old, and she is somebody. She is James and Lily Potter's daughter, she is a survivor, she is a victim, and she is a witch.

It is probably the best and worst day of her life, but as time is prone to do, it passes, and before she knows it, it's September 1st, she's on the Hogwarts Express, and a strange new world is awaiting her.

It's on that train when she meets her soul mate for the first time. She's seated with a ginger named Ron, but there comes a timid knock at the door, and once opened, a chubby faced boy sticks his head through.

"Sorry to bother you, but have either of you seen a toad? I've lost him."

Laurel inhales sharply, and it captures both boys' attention. She offers the second - his name she doesn't know - a tremulous smile.

"I haven't seen your toad, but I can certainly help you find it."

His eyes go comically wide, and he stutters, almost incomprehensible. Across from Laurel, and to Ron's credit, it doesn't take her companion long to realise what's going on. He, thus, stares avidly out the window, and pretends not to hear the encounter that happens only feet from him.

"I-I'm N-Neville. Neville LOngbottom."

"Laurel," she answers, and to her surprise, Neville's eyes widen impossibly further, "Laurel Potter. It's a pleasure to meet you, Neville."

"A-and y-you," Neville acknowledges. he appears dazed. "I err should go find Trevor. My toad."

He retreats like a bat out of hell, and Laurel stares after him, mildly dazed herself.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Ron shakes his head, no. "He's intimidated, I think. You're - well - you, and he's…"

"He's my soulmate," Laurel answers. She sighs. "But I suppose I should give him space. We've got all the time in the world, anyway."

Again, time passes. She's sorted into Gryffindor - with Neville - and between classes, new friends, and the mystery that surrounds the third floor corridor, Laurel slowly but surely gets to know her soulmate. He's shy and quiet, but he likes plants - a lot - and it's something they bond over. She's quiet too, after all, and she probably likes plants just as much.

And thus they grow and change and years go by. Before she knows it, they're 15, and on her birthday, he arrives on her family's doorstep, taller and broader and tanner, and made up entirely of muscle. He's been hiking in the Amazon rainforest, involved in a summer internship with a world-renowned herbalist there.

Most notable, however, is the way he holds himself. He holds his head high, shoulders back, comfortable in his skin and confident in his capabilities. He'd explained in a letter that he has his own wand now, that magic comes far easier to him than it ever did with his father's, and it seems to have given him a new lease on life.

Laurel's just glad he can finally see what she's known all along.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, pleasantly surprised. "I didn't think I'd see you until September."

"There's this old courtship tradition," Neville begins. They're stood in the front garden, and Laurel knows, without having to look, that the desperate housewives are stickybeaking from their front windows. She can't bring herself to care. "It goes that, if a wizard's found his soulmate by courtship age, he makes a request of intention when she reaches fifteen - if she hasn't - to her pater familia. In your case, your godfather, Lord Black. Yesterday, I asked him for permission to court you. He gave it, on the proviso you consented, as well. This is me asking for permission to court you."

"That depends," Laurel hedges, "Are you asking because you want to, or because it's expected of you?"

"Because I want to," he answers, unhesitating.

"In that case, I'd love to be courted by you."

Neville beams, squeezes her small hands in his, and releases one to rummage through a pocket of his jeans. He's dressed in mundane attire, she notices - jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of dragon hide combat boots - but she's distracted when he produces a small box from his pocket.

It's a necklace, an emerald pendant on a silver chain. On the back of the pendant, she recognises the crest of the Longbottom family, and she smiles.

"Will you put it on for me, Neville?"

He does so with trembling fingers, but when he's successful, he turns, tugs her into a hug, and presses a kiss to her crown.

"It's beautiful," he says, " _You're_ beautiful."

She laughs. "You have to say that, suitor of mine. Now, there's this muggle tradition…"

Neville arches an inquisitive eyebrow, but his smile is knowing. She doesn't care. "Oh?"

"Yes," Laurel grins, "Don't keep me waiting, Neville."

He doesn't. Instead, he tilts her chin upwards, bows his head, and guides them both into a sweet, lingering kiss. It's everything Laurel's ever imagined and then some, and she wishes it would never end.

 **Author's Note:** A first attempt at the soulmate trope. Thoughts? -t.


	2. Theodore Nott

**Handprint on my Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Of Theo and Thestrals

 **Pairing:** Theodore NOtt/Primrose Potter (fem!Harry).

It's very tempting to hex Umbridge while her back is turned. Primrose refrains, however, and she instead casts her gaze around her Care of Magical Creatures class. Neville is in conversation with Hannah Abbott, her hand in his as he guide it towards a nearby thesthtral. Most everyone else is occupied with each other, Hagrid with Umbridge, but Prim's attention falls on Theo Nott, and it doesn't waver.

The handsome Slytherin stands alone by yet another thestral. It's nothing new, she reflects. He's never spent much time with his Slytherin peers, and she wonders why that is.

Briefly, she hesitates, but with a steadying breath and the reminder that Gryffindors charge, she approaches him slowly, brushes a hand down the thestral's neck, and offers the Slytherin a tentative smile.

He doesn't return it, but neither does he tell her to bugger off. Prim figures it's a win, and with a bracing breath, she blurts out what she's wanted to say all lesson.

"I'm sorry for your loss, whomever it was."

The boy's hand falters on the equine's spine, but then he shrugs, his brown hair falls into his eyes, and his words almost floor her.

"I never knew her name, but I don't think I'll ever be able to forget her face."

His voice isn't familiar - a clear, crisp tenor - but she's had those words memorised since she was eleven years old. They're branded into her hip in a cramped, albeit tidy, scrawl, and they've given her comfort when nothing else has.

It's a reminder that, one day, she'll never be alone again.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

"Maybe not here," Theo hedges.

"That's alright," she acknowledges. "Meet me in the Entrance Hall after supper. I know a place where we can go."

She leaves him then, returns to Ron and Hermione, and absently chats with them until class is over. Hermione drags them to Hagrid's hut, but Prim's distracted, thoughts on Theo Nott.

She doesn't know what to think, really. Although she's dreamt about it more times than she cares to admit, she's still amazed by the fact she's found her soulmate.

The feeling is difficult to describe.

The afternoon passes in a blur of classes, bitching about Umbridge, and a rushed supper Primrose barely tastes. She escapes from her friends before they can ask her where she's going, and she's surprised to find the boy already awaiting her. He sits on the second to last stair on the grand staircase, but upon sight of her, he stands, greets her with an awkward smile, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

"Hi," she says.

"Hello," he answers, casts his gaze around, and wonders, "Where is this place you're taking me?"

It's the old observatory. No one ever goes there anymore, but it's quaint and comfortable, with a skylight overhead. It's an escape from the rest of Prim's life, and she's somewhat nervous about showing it to someone else.

Theo, however, is unfazed. He drops into a squashy sofa, she joins him, and they sit in silence.

It's broken by Theo.

"Over the summer, Dad brought home this woman I'd never met. She was kidnapped, and he told me to kill her. I refused to, so he raped, tortured, and then murdered her in front of my entire family. Then he sat down for dinner, like it was nothing, like there wasn't this dead lady in our living room, like his four year old daughter wasn't traumatised beyond reckoning. I've been trying to find a way to escape the Death Eaters and _him_ ever since."

Horrified, Prim can only squeeze his hand, uncertain of what other support she can offer him. She remembers Terrence Nott from the graveyard, throwing around avada kedavras and crucios like they're going out of style. He's a sadist, enjoys inflicting pain upon others, and she wonders what Theo's childhood was like.

She's afraid to ask.

"I'm sorry," she says instead, "But if you need to get away, I think I have an idea. It will take a bit of time to organise, however. I'll let you know, okay?"

In the end, it doesn't take much time at all. Dumbledore's all too willing to offer refuge to the students in need of it, and Sirius is simply eager to offer Theo the shovel talk, and thus by Christmas, he has a room in Grimmauld Place, and when she informs him, he almost cries.

"Thank you," he says earnestly.

"What are soulmates for?"

On impulse, she reaches up and kisses him. It takes Theo a moment, but he reciprocates eagerly, his hands on her hips. It's there, her hands braced against his solid chest, that the persistent dregs of loneliness fades. She, finally, has someone to call her own.


	3. Bill Weasley

**Handprint on my Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Of Envy and Impatience**

 **Pairing:** Bill Weasley/Beth Potter (fem!Harry).

With a wistful sigh, Beth Potter traced the slanted, messy cursive written across her abdomen, her thoughts on her soulmate. She wasn't the only one who hadn't yet found hers - Hermione hadn't, and neither had a fair number of the girls in Gryffindor Tower - but sometimes, it certainly felt like it.

Now more than ever, since Dudley had recently found his.

Beth couldn't decide whether or not she should pity or envy the girl. She got Dudley, which was something to be miserable about, but on the other hand, at least she could stop waiting.

Beth hated waiting.

She was brought from her reverie by the sound of a loud crash from the living room. Her relatives were out with Dudley's soul mate, Eloise, and Beth had spent the last hour waiting for the arrival of the Weasleys.

It seemed they'd finally arrived.

Melancholy mood lifted, she stood, straightened out her dress, and exited her room. She could see Ron and Mr Weasley in the hallway, and upon sight of them, she beamed. Hugs were shared, greetings made, and in the next moment, Beth was in the floo, Devon bound.

She stumbled out the other end, and right into someone's muscled, sturdy chest. He was too tall to be Fred or George, and the leather ruled out Percy.

William or Charles, then.

"You alright there, shortstack?"

And apparently, her soulmate.

Nearby, Hermione and Ginny gasped, and in the unknown wizard's arms, Beth stilled.

Then she smiled, beatific.

"I've never been better. I hate waiting."

A laugh, low and rich, and enough to raise goosebumps on her arms. "I know the feeling. Beth, isn't it? I'm Bill. It's a pleasure to meet you, soulmate."

"Likewise."

She couldn't stop smiling, but as Mrs Weasley burst into delighted tears, as Bill received congratulatory claps on his back, as Hermione and Ginny converged on Beth, the real world wasn't about to wait on them.

Bill released her waist, offered her a smile, and promised, "Later."

It was unfortunate that Beth was only 14. Bill would be 23 in January, and thus, anything beyond hugs would be extraordinarily inappropriate. Beth wasn't even sure she wanted any of that - not yet, anyway - but she did enjoy his company. He told her stories of his experiences in Africa, in South America and Asia and everywhere else his work took him. She told him of her own adventures at Hogwarts, of her unhappy time on Privet Drive, of her dreams and wishes for life beyond school. And when school started again, when she was unwillingly dragged head first into the Triwizard Tournament, he became her lifeline.

Somewhere along the way, she became his, too.


	4. Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Criminal Minds. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Of Collisions and Coffee Shops**

 **Pairing:** Hyacinth (fem!Harry)/Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds).

Hyacinth isn't sure what to think about Washington DC, or the United States in general. She lives in an overpriced apartment in Georgetown, she works for the American Department of Magic as a liaison for the mundane side of things, and it's almost like nothing she's ever known.

It's nice though.

At the very least, that's what she tries to tell herself.

"I'm headed out for coffee," Dean Winchester informs her, "Want anything, Potter?"

"I'll come with you," she says, "I need a break."

There's a stack of paperwork on her desk that she's been putting off for days, and as things stand, a few more minutes won't kill her. "Besides, I don't trust you to not buy me that piss in a cup you all call coffee."

"You will become a convert," Dean insists playfully, "It's only a matter of time. Everyone does, in the end."

"That's not ominous at all, Winchester" she quips wryly. He laughs, and they proceed with easy, mindless conversation towards their usual coffee stop. He treats her like a normal human being, and it's probably what Hyacinth appreciates the most about America. Here, she's nothing but another ex-pat, and that's exactly how she likes it.

The coffee shop in Quantico is a bridge between the mundane and magical communities. Unlike the Leaky Cauldron, however, it accepts and caters to non-magical clientele, so there's always a variety of customers Hyacinth can unobtrusively observe. There are the soldiers, of course, off duty or on breaks, their various family members and colleagues. There are the suits, office workers absorbed in phones, or paperwork, or both, and far too preoccupied to notice anything beyond their own lives.

There are others, too, and Hyacinth watches them all, takes stock of their odd American colloquialisms, their habits and mannerisms, and not for the first time, she marvels at the absolute disparities between England and America.

They speak the same language, and it's perhaps the only commonality both countries share, and even _that_ may be contested.

She's fairly certain she'll never grow accustomed to writing with American English.

Irrespective of that, America feels as foreign as anything, and sometimes, Hyacinth feels as out of place as she would in Germany, circa 1942.

She tries - and fails - not to dwell on it.

"Hot chocolate for Hy… Hyacinth?"

With a smile, she accepts the drink from the puzzled barista, thanks the girl politely, turns, and spills her drink all over the unsuspecting man behind her.

So much for constant vigilance.

Alastor Moody would be turning in his grave.

"Bloody hell, I'm terribly sorry," she exclaims. Nearby, Dean positively howls with laughter, and Hyacinth silently vows her retribution. "Let me help you clean that up?"

A queer expression crosses his angular features, and his words are uncertain when he speaks. It only takes her a moment to understand why.

"That's alright," he says, "I shouldn't have been standing so close. Can I get you another drink?"

"I think I'll get by," she answers, unable to repress her smile, and unwilling even to try, "But your name would be nice."

"Ah, i-it's Spencer Reid. I'm pleased to meet you."

Spencer Reid is tall and lean, with hair caught somewhere between blonde and chestnut, with hazel eyes and ill-fitting clothing. He carries a worn messenger bag over one shoulder, and long, pianist fingers clutch a travel mug of coffee with a white-knuckled grip.

He is adorable, and he is her soulmate.

"Likewise," she acknowledges, offers him her name, and decides that Washington DC has just gotten infinitely better.


	5. Aaron Hotchner (Criminal Minds)

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Criminal Minds. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Author's Note:** This one is set in Season 4, after Hotch and Haley's divorce, but before Haley and Jack are sent into protective custody. It is set in 2009, Jack is four, Elaine (fem!Harry) is 29, and Hotch is, let's say, 36? It's never determined how old he is in the series, but Tom Gibson is 53, (46 in Season 4), and I'm taking liberties.

 **The Question of Fate**

 **Pairings:** Aaron Hotchner (Criminal Minds/Elaine Potter (fem!Harry).

Teddy Lupin had grown to possess an uncanny resemblance to his father. He had his mother's metamorphic affinity, of course, but he had Remus' cheekbones, his jaw and nose and smile, and sometimes, it ached to look at him. It was the same way Elaine couldn't bear to look at George some days, the way Andromeda had cried every time Teddy's hair turned that familiar, obnoxious shade of pink. It was grief, and loss, and PTSD, and 11 years later, it still hurt.

It had taken Elaine a long time to realise that the ache would never fade.

And now, she reflected, she had an entirely new pain to add to her collection.

Blaise Zabini had not been her soulmate, but he had been her husband. Her best friend. Her other half. The father of her children. His mother, however, had finally crossed the wrong man, and Blaise had paid the price with his life.

They'd been married for ten years.

"Aunt Ellie, I'm going to take the boys to the swings," Teddy said, "Why don't you sit down? Rest your feet."

Elaine considered the distance between the swing set and the nearest park bench, nodded her acknowledgement, and approached the bench in question. She was tired, run ragged after the funeral, and the move that had swallowed much of her attention since. The pregnancy, too, had sapped much of her energy, and Elaine wondered how anyone had ever managed to do it all alone.

Most days, she just wished she could stay in bed and cry.

She watched her boys, Teddy, Sebastian, and Julian, and smiled to herself. They - and their unborn sibling - were what kept her going, what got her out of bed in the morning, what made her smile when she was certain she never would again.

"Excuse me, ma'am, would you mind if I sat here?"

The voice that asked was a low baritone, but it wasn't his presence that surprised her. It was the words he said. They were familiar like the back of her hand, stretched around her left calf in a cramped, somehow tidy, scrawl.

She'd never thought she would hear them said, but as she nodded, and as he sat with a grateful smile, the feeling of hope bloomed in her chest. She was newly widowed, and not at all prepared to jump head-long into a new relationship, but maybe…

"Do you believe in fate?"

He blinked, startled, and his hand made an aborted motion to touch his back. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, pursed his lips, and considered the question.

"I suppose I do."

Elaine nodded her acknowledgement. "I think I do, too. I bury my husband, and I meet my soulmate six months later. What are the odds?"

"About the same as signing divorce papers four months ago, and then finding you." He offered his hand, and Elaine shook it. "I'm Aaron. Aaron Hotchner, and I'm sorry for your loss."

"Elaine," she answered, "Elaine Zabini, and you have my condolences, as well."

 **Author's Note:** I have ideas to continue this one. Maybe vignettes, maybe a full-length story. I'm thinking the Italian mob, the Reaper… It's exciting.


	6. Cedric Diggory

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Of Seekers and Snitches**

 **Pairing: Violetta Potter (fem!Harry)/Cedric Diggory**

Violetta Potter has always been tall for her age. She learns early in her tenure at Hogwarts that it's a trait inherited from her father, but like James Potter before her, it does not detract from her exceptional skills on a broom. She flies like she was born to, and it's not long before others notice.

It's April, in 1993, and Violetta soars around the quidditch pitch, a blissful smile on her face. In the sky, she's free from her fears of the Chamber of Secrets, of the monster within, and the wind in her face is liberating.

She never wants to land, but before long, she doesn't have a choice.

The Hufflepuff team is clustered outside of their locker room, and Violetta doesn't want to deal with anymore accusations that she, of all people, is the 'Heir of Slytherin'. Thus, she descends far from them, dismounts her Nimbus 2000, and retreats into the Gryffindor locker room before they can stop her.

Before the doors close behind her, Violetta turns her head, puzzled to see Cedric Diggory halfway across the pitch, his pewter gaze on her. The older boy's attention is disconcerting, and it's almost a relief when the door clicks shut.

She does, of course, know who Cedric Diggory is. If Oliver Wood isn't ranting about competition every hour of the day, then Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil are gossiping about how good looking he is at all hours of the night. She knows his height and weight, she knows his flight capabilities, she's heard all about how nice his bum looks without the cumbersome Hogwarts robes.

In fact, Violetta likes to think of herself as something of an expert on Cedric Diggory.

It would be disturbing if she'd actually gone out of her way to acquire all of that information.

Regardless, she's never said a word to the older Hufflepuff, and thus, Violetta pushes his odd behaviour out of her mind. She instead focuses on her shower, and afterwards, on combing the snarls out of her sable hair. As she does, she studies her reflection in the mirror.

Violetta is tall for 12 years old - almost 5'3", in fact - and puberty has started early for her. She'd been (begrudgingly) introduced to training bras over the summer holidays, and she had recently become acquainted with madam Pomfrey's 'Witch's Cabinet'.

It is not a development Violetta appreciates.

Methodically, she dresses, combs her hair into a French braid, and retreats from the locker room, her broom slung over her shoulder. She's expecting the Hufflepuff team in the air - and in fact, most of them are already up there - but Cedric Diggory leans against the wall by the locker room doors, and Violetta nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Merlin, Diggory, what are you _doing_?" She exclaims, her hand to her heart. "You scared the life out of me."

He grins, sheepish, and cards a hand through his caramel hair. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry about my housemates. They're all idiots. Also, good luck next weekend. I won't go easy on you."

There's a brief pause where both of them absorb what they've each just said, and at the same time, their eyes widen, Violetta's jaw drops, and Cedric exhales with an incredulous laugh. Violetta doesn't blame him. She's kind of disbelieving, too.

"Wow," Cedric says, "I was not expecting that."

"You and me both," Violetta answers. She scuffs one of her toes along the grass, bites her lower lip, and glances towards Cedric's quidditch team. They've slowed in the air, and excepting the beaters, they're all watching, apparently impatient. She wonders what they see. "Your team is waiting, Cedric. You should go. I'll… I'll, um, be in the library after dinner. Maybe we can meet up there?"

Cedric nods jerkily. "That… that sounds like a plan. I'll, ah, see you there."

He rockets off into the air before she can acknowledge his words, and Violetta retreats to the castle in a daze. Ron and Hermione are there, studying by one of the windows, and Violetta joins them, still lost in thought.

"What's wrong?" Ron asks. "You look like someone just clubbed you over the head with a beater's bat."

"I just found my soulmate," Violetta answers. To her left, Hermione claps her hands together, delighted.

"That's wonderful, Vi," she says, "Who is it?"

"You can't tell anyone," Violetta says, "I don't even know if he wants anything to do with me. It's Cedric Diggory."

While Ron and Hermione bicker over the pros and cons of Hufflepuff house, Violetta produces her Transfiguration homework, and waits.

The hours drift by.

Before long, she's finished her dinner, she's settled in the library, and it's hard to concentrate.

Again, time drifts by, curfew draws near, and Cedric Diggory doesn't show up.

Violetta leaves in tears.

-!- -#-

In the days that follow, Violetta decides that she has the best friends imaginable. That first night, Lavender, Parvati, Fay and Hermione spend hours with her, badmouthing Cedric Diggory, and making Violetta feel as pretty as she's ever been.

Fred and George prank him mercilessly.

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie act as a buffer between her, and Hufflepuff house as a whole.

And the following weekend, Gryffindor House trounces Hufflepuff for all they're worth.

When she grips the snitch in her hand, and meets Cedric Diggory's unreadable gaze, the win is exceedingly gratifying.

"Are you okay?" Angelina asks later. They're in the Gryffindor girls' change room, and Katie is occupied with Violetta's hair.

Violetta smiles. "With friends like mine, who needs a soulmate?"


	7. Noah Puckerman (Glee)

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Harmonic Convergence**

 **Pairing: Noah Puckerman (Glee)/Hope Potter (fem!Harry).**

When Hope was small, Arabella Fig had been her babysitter. Without much else to keep her occupied, the elderly lady taught her to play the piano, to read music, to understand the theory, and Hope fell in love. Better yet, it was something her relatives hadn't been able to take away from her, because as much as they despised her happiness, they also couldn't deny that they appreciated the fact Mrs Fig expected no charge for her time.

At 18, Hope's love for the piano hadn't waned. She'd learned the flute and the guitar in the years since, had learned to sing and to write music, and the creative outlet was probably what had gotten her through her tumultuous years at Hogwarts, and the last year spent on the run, chasing ghosts to bring Voldemort down, to (eventually) kill him, and finally, to farewell all those whom she'd lost.

It had been twelve months since Voldemort's downfall, and in that time, a lot had changed. Hermione had moved to Bulgaria, to settle down with her longterm boyfriend (and soulmate), Viktor Krum. The romantic triad that was Ginny, Luna, and Colin had disappeared to locations unknown, ready to take the journalism world by storm with Colin's photography, Ginny's interview skills, and Luna's evocative articles.

Last Hope had heard, they were in Turkey, acquiring information about the tensions between Turkey and Syria. They'd become war correspondents for London's 'Daily Telegraph', and they'd acquired a certain notoriety for their literary achievements.

In the midst of his auror training, Ron had married his own soulmate, Lavender Brown, ravaged by Fenrir Greyback, but no less beautiful for it. Her scars told a story of courage and defiance, and sometimes, Hope struggled to remember the vapid, superficial little girl Hope had once insisted had made her want to drown herself in boiling oil.

While he was heavily involved in the reconstruction of Hogwarts, Neville had begun an old-fashioned courtship with his own soulmate, Hannah Abbott. They'd danced around each other for years, of course, both too shy and too timid to make the first move. War, however, could make and break a person, and Hope, of course, had not been surprised to learn that they'd both finally found their courage.

She was pleased for them, though sad for herself.

She'd not yet found her own soulmate, and the loneliness was sometimes all-consuming. If not for Andromeda and Teddy, she'd likely have put herself out of her misery months ago. Hope didn't like to think about that, however.

"How is New York?" Andromeda's voice on the other end of the line was distracted, and no doubt, she was preoccupied by the task that was wrangling her adventurous grandson. He'd begun to walk a few months ago, and had inherited Remus' curiosity and Tonks' precociousness to boot, and thus, he had a tendency to find his way into obscure, hard to reach places. It was exasperating and amusing all at once, but Hope wouldn't have him any other way.

"It's lovely," she answered, "Nothing like London. Can you believe it's even more crowded? I mean, I thought it would be the same, you know - major cities, and all - but it's completely different."

"Do you like it?"

She settled herself on a bench in Central Park, carded a hand through her tousled hair, and smiled to herself. "I do. If I'm being completely honest, I don't want to leave. Not yet."

"Then don't," Andromeda answered.

"But I need-"

"Sweetheart, you are 18 years old. Take your time, explore, see what New York has to offer. Teddy and I will be here, waiting, when you return. It's about time you did something for yourself."

"I'll think about it," Hope hedged, though she was inwardly doubtful she actually would.

"That's the least I can ask of you, I suppose," Andromeda conceded.

They spoke more on trivial things for a few moments, but eventually, they said their farewells. Andromeda had to put Teddy to bed, and Hope herself had loitered too long. She hung up on the older woman, pocketed her phone, and approached the park exit. As she did, however, someone shouted, and it was directed at her.

"Head's up!"

She turned, bewildered to see a football headed in her direction. She raised her arms, caught it in both hands, and stared, bemused, as a tall, broad shouldered man approached her. He wore a sheepish grin, his hazel eyes bright, his hair cropped short.

With a square jaw, and high cheekbones, he was, truly, too handsome for his own good.

"Nice catch," he complimented.

She blinked, dazed, and replied, "Quick reflexes."

There was a moment's hesitation where neither of them were certain of what to do, but he offered her a hand, and Hope shook it with a smile. "I'm Noah. Noah Puckerman."

"Hope," she answered, "Hope Potter."

"Is there any chance you've got 'nice catch' scrawled out in chicken scratch somewhere on your skin?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Hope answered, chuckling, and glanced over his shoulder. "Your friend's headed this way."

His friend was shorter, with curly hair and vaguely oriental features. Mixed- she assumed, and left it at that.

"Are you alright?"

"I am," Hope confirmed, "Thanks for the warning…"

"Blaine," he answered, and Hope smiled again. She couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled so much.

Had she ever?

"A few friends and I are having a picnic," Noah informed her, and there was a wry smile on his face, "Would you like to join us?"

Hope hesitated. She wasn't one to gate crash other peoples' gatherings, but at the same time, she wasn't inclined to let her soulmate out of her sight. Not so soon.

"Sure," she agreed, "I'd love to."

Blaine and Noah led her to a spread of picnic blankets, whereupon they were greeted by more people than she'd anticipated.

"Dudes, this is Hope. She's joining us."

Without ado, Noah offered her a can of lemonade, Hope accepted it dazedly, and settled on a blanket beside a bright eyed blonde with a vague, dreamy smile. She was introduced as Brittany, and Hope was already fond of her.

"How'd you meet Puck?" Santana, another of Noah's friends, queried.

"I just met him a few moments ago," Hope answered.

"We're soulmates," Noah contributed, "I figured she should find out fast what she's getting into."

A bright eyed brunette, Rachel, clapped her hands together, a delighted smile on her face. "I'm so pleased for you both. Will you tell us about yourself?"

"There isn't much to tell," Hope answered, "I live in London, I have a 15 month old godson, and I'm trying to figure out what I want to do with my life."

"Noah's a junior at NYU," Rachel informed her, "He's studying a double degree in Business and Music."

"You like music?" Hope queried, inexplicably pleased. "I do, too. Do you play any instruments?"

"Guitar, mostly. Some piano, some accordion. Saxophone. Drums."

"Colour me impressed," Hope acknowledged, "You've got me beat by two."

Santana smirked, threw an arm over Hope's shoulders, and informed her, "You'll fit right in."


	8. Marcus Flint

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **The Fear**

 **Pairings:** Marcus Flint/Adelaide Potter (fem!HP).

There is something utterly terrifying about Marcus Flint.

At 11, it's one of the first things she notices about him. His shoulders are wide, his lips pulled into an ugly sneer, and there is a particular presence about him, malicious and menacing, that has her hiding - unabashedly - behind Fred, George, and Oliver.

It is, also, why Adelaide has never said a word to him. It's been three whole years, and nearly half of a fourth. She is 14 years old, she's confronted Voldemort, giant spiders, a basilisk, dementors, a werewolf, a cerberus, and still, she is absolutely intimidated by him.

It's ridiculous, really.

"We're having a scrimmage against the Slytherin quidditch team," Angelina informs her.

"That sounds dangerous," Katie quips.

"We don't have a keeper," Adele answers, bewildered, at the same time.

"McLaggen's volunteered," Angelina explains.

The boy in question looks pale and sweaty, and Adelaide wonders, idly, what Angelina's idea of 'volunteering' is.

"When is it, then?" Alicia queries.

"Right now," Angelina answers.

Katie, Alicia, and Adelaide each glance between themselves, nonplused, and scramble towards the dormitory stairs with muttered oaths beneath their breath.

They do not, however, complain.

In truth, Adelaide's missed quidditch, missed the opportunity to fly regularly, and it is always satisfying to trounce Draco Malfoy at every opportunity. She's missed that, too.

"Ready?" Katie asks. She stands in the doorway of Adele's dorm, her broom propped against her side, and already dressed in her training clothes. It consists of a linen blouse and a leather jerkin, tight fitting pants tucked into lightweight boots, and a robe, of course, and Adelaide wears the exact same thing.

"Yes," she confirms, snaps her hair elastic into place, and pins her fringe behind her ears, "Let's go."

Adelaide retrieves her broom on her way out, descends the stairs behind Katie, and follows her friend through the common room. Angelina awaits them by the portrait hole, stood with the twins, Alicia, and Cormack McLaggen, and she nods brusquely upon their arrival.

Katie rolls her eyes.

"Merlin, but the leadership position's really gone to her head, hasn't it?"

Adele's responding smile is wry. "Could be worse, I suppose. We could still be training."

"Touche," she concedes. "What do you think this is about, anyway?"

"She and Flint probably just got into another argument," Adele shrugs, "I don't really care. It's nice to get away from that gods-forsaken egg, I swear to Merlin…"

Katie's smile is sympathetic, but she says nothing regarding the matter. For that, Adele is grateful.

Eventually, they reach the quidditch pitch, and the Slytherin team, unsurprisingly, has not yet arrived.

Angelina takes the opportunity to lecture Cormack for all he is worth, and meanwhile, Adelaide rockets off into the sky, followed shortly thereafter by Fred, George, Alicia, and Katie. The November winds are biting against her skin, but the sky is clear, and the day is beautiful.

"Merlin's balls," George grimaces, "It's cold as a witch's tits up here."

"I resent that," Alicia grumbles, but there's a smile on her face, and the older girl is hopelessly smitten.

"Can you confirm that your tits aren't fucking freezing right now, then?" Fred queries.

"Hey now," Katie interjects, "No one wants to hear about Alicia's breasts."

"Speak for yourself, blondie, I'd love to hear about them," George answers.

Adelaide, face red, flies away. Such conversation is nothing new, of course, but her older friends' frankness regarding such matters is always a surprise, and Adele's fairly certain she'll never grow accustomed to it.

"Gods, you'd think they'd learn," Katie grouses, catching up to her. She doesn't allow Adelaide the opportunity to respond, however. "Looks like the Slytherins have arrived."

Adele casts her gaze downwards, and indeed, the Slytherins have gathered near Angelina and Cormack. Adele begrudgingly descends, Katie by her side, and as they do, the younger girl studies their schoolyard rivals.

There is Draco Malfoy, of course, arrogant and conceited as ever. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle, with beaters bats in hand, and particularly dense-looking expressions on their faces. There is. Bole, whose first name Adelaide doesn't actually know, with all of the height of Hagrid, but with none of the girth.

Stood side by side, Adrian Pucey and Cassius Warrington watch the Gryffindors gather, silent and wary, and almost as terrifying as their captain.

Then there is The young man in question, with that same hideous scowl, but somehow even _larger_ than he was the year prior. Marcus Flint, in his second round as a Slytherin 7th year, as terrifying as ever, and Adelaide can't even meet his gaze.

She, blessedly, doesn't have to.

-!- -#-

The game ends in a bloody draw. Cormack's got a broken nose and a fractured eye socket, Katie's arm is twisted at a disturbingly wrong angle, and Malfoy's ribs are cracked six ways to Sunday. There are scrapes and bruises, and Pucey wears a trio of jagged scratches along his cheek from Alicia's talons, and that's only the beginning.

"Just go," she exhales, "I'll pack up."

"Are you sure?" Angelina nurses her sprained wrist, reluctant. The others are already gone, and Adelaide offers her friend a smile she doesn't really feel.

"I'm sure. Now go, your wrist shouldn't ever be that shade of purple."

Angelina concedes with a nod, and once Adelaide has packed away the snitch and quaffle, she braces herself to catch the bludgers. Before she can mount her broom, however, she is startled by a voice behind her.

"Need help, little bird?" The tone is gruff, the voice itself gravelly, and it takes Adelaide a few moments to actually recognise the speaker. When she does, she stills, turns slowly, and comes face to face - well, chest - with Marcus Flint.

Adelaide resists the urge to bolt, but she's fairly certain the Slytherin Captain can see right through her. There's a small, knowing smirk on his face, and somehow, it makes him even more scary. As though, knowing that she's afraid of him, and not actually giving a damn, gives him a certain power he would have otherwise lacked.

She doesn't like it.

She doesn't like the words he said, either, because they're scrawled out across her collarbone, in a cramped, slanted cursive that shouldn't come from a bloke so - well - thuggish.

She doesn't want her soulmate to be a brute that enjoys inflicting pain upon others. She's already spent too much of her life with Dudley, thank you very much.

Thus, she shakes her head, no, and takes to the sky. She returns with both bludgers, one after another, and as she does, Flint wrangles them into their box in silence. Then she dismounts, and he lingers.

Adelaide blinks at him, mute.

Flint looks back, and his expression is grave. He wears no sneer, no smirk, but instead, there is a thoughtful furrow between his eyebrows, a frown on his lips.

It somehow transforms him.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, little bird."

Adelaide tilts her head, and her heart thunders inside her chest. "I don't know how not to be, Marcus Flint."

He nods, and he is unsurprised. She wonders how he already knows. "Then you'll just have to learn."

She bites her lip, nods slowly, and attempts a smile. "I'll try."

He nods his acknowledgement, hauls the quidditch crate up in both arms, and gestures for her to walk beside him. Adelaide does so in silence, and she smiles.

Like this, she's not so afraid.

 **Author's Note:** The Aaron Hotchner continuation has been posted. You can find it on my profile, or in the Criminal Minds/Harry Potter crossover section. It's called 'All That You Are', as in 'All that you are, is all that I'll ever need'. The lyrics are Ed Sheeran's, but I can't remember what song. Tenerife Sea, I think. Anyway, your thoughts on the Marcus Flint/fem!HP oneshot? I'd love to hear them. Hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	9. Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau (Marvel)

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or X-Men. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Of Hope and Faith**

 **Pairings:** Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau (Marvel)/Violet Potter (fem!Harry).

As a child, Violet was enrolled a variety of extra-curricular activities, paid for by the stipend provided by the Potter Estate. She learned, later, that it was because the goblins and the executor of her parents' will, Albus Dumbledore, had been rather stringent in ensuring that she was properly taken care of, and that the money was spent on her own wants and needs. At the time, however, the girl hadn't been any the wiser. All she'd known was that the money not spent on clothes, school, or her meals had gone to extra-curricular activities designed to keep her out of the house, and out of trouble.

Ballet. Circus. Karate, Savate, and Judo. Gymnastics. Yoga. Piano. Etiquette.

In retrospect, Violetta thought it was the greatest irony that, while she'd been kept too busy to think about trouble, Vernon and Petunia's son, Dudley, had grown up to become a juvenile delinquent. He was, presently, doing time in a juvenile detention facility for vehicular theft, among other things, and he wasn't expected to get out for another six months, at least.

In the meantime, Piers Polkiss had become Violet's shadow, and she wasn't pleased by the change. Violet remembered, vividly, the merciless name-calling he'd directed her way in primary school, and these days, the sight of him left a bad taste in her mouth. Piers, however, was unfazed by her hostility.

"Can I walk you home, Potter?"

"I don't need a babysitter, Polkiss."

"Humour me, then?"

"If you insist," she grimaced.

They walked on in silence, and Violet rounded a bend in an alleyway she regularly used in order to cut her journey in half. As she did, a van pulled in at the opposite end, and the inconsiderate driver kept his high-beams on.

"What a wanker," Piers grunted. He fell into step beside her, and as the van idled, and a pair of men climbed out from the back, Vi was suddenly grateful for his presence.

She stopped, wary, and glanced behind her. A nondescript sedan had blocked the way they'd come, and her heartbeat was loud in her ears.

A setup, she determined, but not by Voldemort. Merlin forbid he stoop to using mundane means to achieve his ends.

If not him, though, then whom?

"What's going on?" Piers wondered.

Vi shook her head. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. "I don't know. Let's just keep walking. It's none of our business."

"They're watching you." Piers crowded in beside her, his wary gaze on the van before them. Behind them, a car door slammed closed, and Violet dropped her duffel bag to the ground. Piers did too, and they stopped where they stood.

"No fire escapes," Piers muttered. He flicked his gaze behind them. In the glow of a street lamp, he noticed what Violet hadn't. "They've got fucking guns."

"Great," she grunted.

Violet, briefly, considered her wand, but discarded the idea just as quickly. She had no desire to be accused of breaching the Statute of Secrecy, and moreover, she doubted the current government would take her use of underage magic well. Self-defence or not, she just didn't have that luck.

That left, of course, her own body, and the secret she was determined to take to her grave.

"What do you think our chances are in a fight?" She wondered, an ironic half smile on her face.

"Against guns?" Piers parried, an eyebrow arched, "Not great, Lettie."

"I didn't think so," she acknowledged, "But whatever they want with us-"

"- With you -"

"I'm not going to give in without a fight."

"You're bonkers," Piers determined, an incredulous expression on his face, "Attractive, but bonkers."

Violet didn't acknowledge his words, and instead turned her back towards the music store that bordered the alleyway. Piers stood beside her, and together, they watched the approaching threats in silence.

"You have to make a break for it," Piers insisted, his gaze back and forth between both ends of the alley. "Passed the van. Run, and don't look back. I'll hold them off."

Struck, inexplicably, by a sense of deja vu she didn't understand, Violet tensed up, prepared for a fight, and answered, "Not a chance in hell, Polkiss."

Simultaneously, the brutes from the van had reached them, large and imposing in the dim streetlight. Their expressions were impassive, and Violet was terrified.

Piers stepped into a defensive stance, and the witch mirrored him, her gaze wary.

"What do you want?"

Neither answered. Instead, the crack of a gun sounded, and beside her, Piers fell, the side of his head blown to bits.

She could feel the blood on her face, and in the stillness that followed, her world narrowed down to the threats that surrounded her, to the warmth of Piers' blood against her skin, to the barely inaudible laugh behind her.

Violet couldn't take them all on, so she ran. Passed the brutes, passed the van, and just as her pace began to pick up to something distinctly _not_ natural , she ran directly into the path of another car, waiting for her. A gun was raised, and a dart pierced her neck, and the feeling made her stagger. She raised her arm to her neck, where it had just pierced her skin, and blinked dazedly.

What was happening? What did these people want with her? Why wasn't her mutation fighting back?

The questions followed her into oblivion, and Violet collapsed, directly into someone's arms. Before she knew no more, however, Violet thought she'd heard sirens.

-!- -#-

She woke in a cell. It was plain, with clinically white walls, a solitary sleeping mat, and a prison-style toilet/sink combination, and the only dignity it afforded was a half-wall that left nothing to the imagination.

There was a camera mounted in an upper corner of the cell, streaming live, and there was a prisoner in the cell across from her own.

He was awake, and he was staring at her. And Piers Polkiss was dead.

"Where am I?" She wondered, her gaze on the tall, lanky boy across from her. He had interesting eyes, a red pupil on a black iris, and he was exceedingly handsome besides. A mutant, without question, though Violet wasn't about to go throwing stones.

She was one too, after all, and a witch besides.

"You're a long way from home, cherie," he answered. Although the accent was unknown to her, the words were as familiar to her as her own name. She wanted to cry.

In all of her imaginings, Violet had never thought she would meet her soulmate like this.

"What's your name?" She queried, determined to distract herself until she could focus properly. Her mind was still muddled, her most recent memories out of her reach, but she could focus on this.

"Remy," he answered, Remy LeBeau. Gambit, in some circles."

"Remy," she echoed, and attempted a smile. With the blood still caked to her face, and the memory of Piers' body on the alleyway ground fresh in her mind's eye, she doubted it was anything but unpleasant. "I'm Violet."

He mouthed her name slowly, treated it as though it was something to be savoured, and offered her a beatific smile. It was out of place in their surroundings, but she made an effort to memorise the sight of it, anyway.

If she went away from this place with nothing - if she went away at all - she would, at least, have that.

"What is this place?" She queried.

"They are the labs of Dr Nathaniel Essex." It was someone else who replied, and Violet thought it was in the cell left of her own. A girl, perhaps around the same age as Violet herself. It was difficult to say, with the accent. "Or Mr Sinister, if you prefer his pseudonym."

"And what does he want with us?" She'd heard rumours, of course, that there were people who captured mutants for their own ends, but Violet had never imagined that they were actually true.

"He wants to make a race of super humans. He believes mutants are the way to go about it. Apparently, he thinks you worthy of his _attention_. What's your mutation?"

She glanced to the camera, wary. "Should I be sharing that?"

"Unless you came here voluntarily, then they already know," Remy answered, tone grim.

"In that case, I have a built-in defence mechanism that works at an instinctual level."

There was a brief, bewildered pause.

"What?" Remy, and the girl to Violet's left, were both perplexed by her explanation, though the witch wasn't particularly surprised. She didn't understand it herself, in truth.

"I fall off a cliff, I can suddenly fly. A car's about to run me over, I can teleport. I'm about to be stabbed, I become invulnerable. It can't be controlled though. Not to my knowledge, anyway. I can't jump off a cliff, and _expect_ to grow wings."

The girl huffed. "No wonder he wants you. You're the epitome of Darwinism."

It turned out her name was Emma, though they didn't speak much after it was mentioned. Instead, Violet sprawled out across the mat provided, glanced at Remy from time to time, but mostly brooded on the events that had brought her there, and on the possibility of what would happen to her thus.

"Do you have anything on you?" Remy queried.

Violet shook her head, no. They'd taken her wand from her, and everything else had been in her bedroom, or in her duffel bag. They'd even removed the pins from her hair.

"Nothing," she denied, carded her hands through her free-falling curls, and exhaled, "They took everything."

"Even the wires in your bra, right?" Emma quipped, though she didn't expect an answer.

Despite herself, Violet laughed. There was nothing funny about the situation, though she supposed it was better than tears.

"You alright?" Remy queried.

Violet approached the bars of her cell, and wrapped her arms around the metal. She liked to think she'd been in worser situations - Little Hangleton and the Chamber of Secrets came to mind - but she had never been a prisoner, and neither had she ever been targeted for her mutation. She hadn't thought anyone had _known_ of it, in fact.

"i've had better days."

"Haven't we all, cherie?"

"Quite," she acknowledged, tone droll. She examined the bars, and the lock as well, and sighed to herself.

Fred and George had been able to pick locks, and they'd offer to teach her, but Hermione had climbed up on her moral high-horse, and Violet had decided that it wasn't worth the lifetime of rants they would all receive for the trouble.

In retrospect, she wished she'd taken up the twins' offer.

Then again, she mused, perhaps it wouldn't have made a difference.

"You should brace yourself," Emma informed her, "The first thing they'll do to you is harvest your eggs."

Violet blinked, startled. "What?"

"NO doubt, they got everything else while you were unconscious," Emma continued, "But this one is a whole lot more invasive. It takes time, at least, though that doesn't make it any better-"

"Merde, woman, stop talking," Remy interjected. He'd adopted a rather homicidal expression, but Emma continued anyway, apparently unfazed.

"Because genetics is Sinister's bread and butter, they collect eggs and sperm, and apparently he even clones them. I haven't seen that, but the older prisoners talked, and I listened."

Perturbed, Violet settled back on her sleep mat, rested her head against her arms, and called for Dobby.

He didn't come.

How far away did she have to be, she wondered, for her faithful friend to not heed her call?

Violet sighed, glanced towards Remy's cell, and managed a smile. As she did, the lights went out, and the darkness was all-consuming.

"Try get some sleep, cherie," Remy told her, "You'll need it."

Violet closed her eyes, fell asleep, and dreamed of home.

-!- -#-

In the beginning, she'd expected a rescue, but it had never come. She eventually gave up, and in the days, weeks, and (eventually) months that followed, she grew to know Remy, Emma, and the other 'subjects', too. She learned their birthdays, their interests, about their families. In turn, she told them everything about herself, but nothing about magic, but that was alright.

They all had their secrets, but with every detail shared, they all remembered, too.

No matter what, none of them would be forgotten.

As time passed, other 'subjects' came and went, but somehow, Emma, Remy, and Violet always remained.

On one particular day in winter, she was curled up on her sleeping mat, her face towards Remy's cell.

He mirrored her position, and looked as exhausted as she felt, but his eyes were open, and fathomless against her own. She'd never touched this boy, had never felt his face or lips or skin, but she couldn't imagine the rest of her life without him in it.

Perhaps, then, it's why she asked.

"Do you think we'll die in here?"

"No, ange. I don't."

And somehow, it was all she needed to hear.

 **Author's Note:** I was going to continue this one, to make it a supremely long short story, but the scenes I wrote were choppy and awkward, and I decided to scrap them. Thoughts? Also, is anyone else receiving video ads on this site, or did I accidentally mess with my privacy settings? Anyway, until next time, -t.


	10. Oliver Wood

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **What We Want**

 **Pairing:** Oliver Wood/Estelle Potter (fem!HP).

Estelle Potter is small and delicate, and her classmates trail after her like ducklings after their mother. She is charming and gracious, talented and clever, creative and confident. She is all the best of both her parents, and it's a wonder she turned out so lovely with guardians like Petunia and Vernon.

Minerva's just grateful that the girl didn't turn up at Hogwarts half starved, caught far out of her depths, and way in over her head.

Apparently, she's known of magic for a very long time, and they all have Arabella Fig to thank for it.

"I've found you a seeker," Minerva informs Oliver Wood. He glances at the first year beside her, arches both eyebrows, and then studies her critically.

"She's small enough for it," he observes.

"She caught a remembral after a 50 foot dive," Minerva deadpans.

Oliver addresses Estelle. "I'm impressed, half-pint."

"I aim to please," Estelle parries.

There's a pause, and Oliver laughs, surprised and awkward. He cards a hand through his hair, tugs at the roots, and shrugs. "What do you know about quidditch?"

"Not much," Estelle answers, offers Wood a tentative smile, and asks, "Would you teach me?"

"I will," he agrees, "We can start tonight.

…

Oliver becomes her best friend. He's a quidditch nut, and he doesn't approve of her adventures, but he helps her with her homework, he invites her home for Christmas, and he lets her sit, quietly, and read to her heart's content.

She loves stories like he loves to fly.

…

At the end of his 7th year, she meets him on the quidditch pitch. Puberty's struck her with a vengeance, but that doesn't mean she's at all old enough for anything.

She still feels like a child.

"Does it bother you?"

"What?" Oliver wonders. He's sprawled out across the grass, and she's stretched out beside him, her eyes on the clouds.

"I'm so much younger than you."

Oliver shrugs, unfazed. "It won't matter in a few years."

…

At the end of the Yule Ball, she wants to kiss him. He knows it, too, but as he brushes his thumb along her cheekbone, his smile is apologetic. "Not yet, half-pint."

She sighs, drops her forehead against his broad chest, and curls her fingers into the black robe he wears. He wraps his arms around her waist, and Estelle feels safer than she ever has.

She's upset though, and she wishes she was older.

…

"I'm sorry," he says, over and over and over again. He's wrapped around her like a blanket, and Padfoot is curled up at their feet, and Estelle hasn't said a word.

Instead, she stares at the empty space before her, and wishes it was she who'd died.

…

She is 15, Grimmauld Place is miserable, and Oliver is as handsome as he's ever been. They are in her room, her door is locked, and she kisses him before he can stop her.

Its wet and sloppy, but his hands guide her head, his tongue coaxes hers, and she doesn't think she's ever felt so wired.

Almost predictably, they're disrupted by the twins, who take in the sight before them and cheer uproariously. It makes her laugh, and Oliver does too, and for a while, Estelle is truly, genuinely happy.

It doesn't last.

…

Sirius is dead, and Estelle is half convinced a part of her has died with him. Her innocence, perhaps, because there is nothing quite like being told to 'kill, or be killed' that makes one grow up, fast.

She doesn't want to think about that - of any of it - and so she drowns herself in Oliver instead, tugs at his shirt and belt and the fly of his jeans, kisses him like she'll die if she doesn't, and prays that this moment will never end.

It's rare that she ever gets what she wants.

"I love you," Oliver rasps, but he takes her hands in his, "But not yet. Not like this."

Estelle doesn't fight him on it. She's too tired, to worn, too sad. She cries instead, and he holds her like he'll never let her go.

She prays he doesn't.

…

Remus tells her that Lily chose her name.

"She named you after her favourite character from 'Lord of the Rings'," he recalls, "Apparently, his name means 'Hope'."

Estelle doesn't ask anymore questions, and instead decides that she'll kill Voldemort. For her parents' sake, if nothing else.

They deserve that much.

Moreover, she wants her life - her future - with Oliver. The one she dreamt of at the age of 11, and the one she hasn't yet given up on.

…

Dumbledore is entombed on a bright, summer day, and Oliver makes her a promise.

"When this war is over, I'm going to marry you. I swear it."

She smiles, brushes her hair out of her eyes, and answers, "I'm going to hold you to that."

And then she wins a war.

…

He finds her afterwards. She is in the Great Hall, and beside George, there is a gaping chasm where Fred should stand.

She can't stop looking for him - for Fred - and she's not the only one.

"I have something for you," Oliver says. He gets down on one knee, surrounded by mourners and bodies and covered in blood, and offers her a ring. It's white gold and delicate, with a princess cut pink diamond, and asks, "Will you marry me?"

She smiles, nods, and watches as he slides the ring on her finger. As he does, she decides that, of all the things she's wanted and never received, she's glad that this - that _he_ \- is not one of them.

And the world has never seemed brighter.


	11. Sam Evans (Glee)

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Never Better**

 **Pairings:** Sam Evans (Glee)/Hazel Potter (fem!HP).

At 16, Hazel is jaded, disillusioned, and world weary. She's seen the ugliest the world has to give, she's been chewed up and spat out, and she is over all of it. That is why, after the debacle in the Ministry of Magic, she packs up her things, transfers her funds, and walks away.

The magical world can clean up their own wretched mess.

A number of weeks later, she's bought a flat, has settled down in nowhere, Ohio, and she's elbows deep in revision of the mundane studies she's neglected for five years. It's a chore, to say the least, but she slogs through it with the dogged determination that saw her through most of her detentions last year. By the time her first day at William McKinley High rolls around, she's confident that, at the very least, she won't fail spectacularly.

That said, Hazel is nervous. She's faced far more dangerous things, of course, but there's nothing quite like an entire school of adolescents to make one feel insecure about themselves.

With a tremulous exhale, she approaches the front door, content to pretend that she doesn't notice all of the eyes on her. She just wants to get through the next two years of her life without incident, perhaps blend into the background of WMHS, but apparently, that's a bit too much to ask for.

The collision comes out of nowhere. She's rounding the corner, headed to the administration office, when someone barrels into her from the opposite direction. She lands on her bum with an 'oomph', a handsome, ashy blonde stranger sprawled out on top of her, with, what feels like, the entire school watching.

Hazel is mortified, and she's fairly certain her tailbone will never be the same.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay? Here, let me help you up."

The boy scrambles to his feet, and offers Hazel a hand. She accepts it dazedly, collects her bag from the ground, and brushes off her jeans. As she does, the knowledge that this boy has just said the words written into her skin settles over her, and she can't help but smile.

"Are you alright?" He asks again.

Hazel nods, her expression tentative. "I'm alright. No harm done."

The boy, clad in a letterman jacket and frayed jeans, blinks a few times, apparently startled. She can relate, of course, and thus she waits for him to collect himself.

"I'm Sam," he says, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

"Hazel," she replies, and queries, "Are you a junior, too?"

"Yeah," he confirms, glances around, and asks in turn, "Were you headed to the admin office?"

"I was."

"I'll walk you there."

On their way, Sam points out landmarks and friends, and occasionally throws out pop culture references that go way over her head. He decides that her ignorance is unacceptable, and then proceeds to plan out an intervention.

Hazel is too bemused to protest, and isn't inclined to, anyway.

They eventually reach the office though, and as Hazel undergoes a longwinded ramble about extra-curricular activities and school rules, Sam occupies himself with a study of her new timetable. He seems to struggle with it, and after Hazel manages to escape Principal Figgins, she asks about it.

She's never been the subtle sort.

"Do you need to wear glasses, or something?"

"What?"

"It looked like you were having a hard time," she shrugs, "With the timetable, I mean."

"Dyslexic," he explains.

"That sucks," she says, and offers him a smile, "I'm dreadfully near-sighted, but if you ever need help, feel free to ask."

There is a story behind it; wrapped up in her premature birth and the six weeks that followed, but Hazel's not inclined to rehash it in the middle of a school hallway. In fact, she's not inclined to rehash it at all.

Sam smiles. "Thanks. That's kind of you to offer."

It turns out, by fate or design, that they share a lot of the same classes,, and by lunch, Hazel's grown rather fond of him. Sam is funny and charming, kind of dorky, but considerate and friendly, and he makes her laugh.

It seems almost too good to be true.

Thus, as she settles beside him at a table surrounded by a motley group of strangers, she produces her packed lunch from her bag, and waits for the other shoe to drop.

"Everyone, this is Hazel," Sam introduces, "Hazel, this is the Glee Club."

Sam has mentioned them, of course. They are the show choir, and most of the time, they are also Sam's friends. Among them are two of his ex-girlfriends, Quinn Fabray and Mercedes Jones, and they both eye her critically. She stares back, apathetic, and eats her meal with a slight wave for the others.

As she eats, she listens, and places names to faces. Noah Puckerman and Blaine Anderson are Sam's closest friends, but he is rather fond of everyone else - even Quinn.

Hazel tries to be, too.

-!- -#-

In want of activities to fill her free time, Hazel joins the soccer and debating teams, gets a part-time job as a barista at the Lima Bean, and picks up a babysitting gig from her upstairs neighbours. She spends the rest of her free time with Sam, or studying - or both - and its not long before the others realise what neither of them have mentioned.

It is not, however, spoken of. Soulmates are one of those private, not meant for public consumption, kind of topics, and Hazel is entirely happy with that.

Sam is, too.

"Did you want to go out?" Sam asks, "On a date, I mean."

"Sure," Hazel agrees. "When?"

It's a date at the bowl-a-rama that Saturday, because Sam is determined to introduce her to all she's missed out on, and Hazel's unconventional enough to be delighted by the dating cliche.

"I had fun," she tells him later. They're at the diner Sam works at, stuffed full with burgers, fries, and a milkshake shared between them, "Let's do mini-golf next time."

Sam grins, amused, nods his agreement, and answers, "It sounds like a plan."

And as Sam kisses her later that night, as she twines her fingers in his ash blonde hair, as his tongue tangles with her own, Hazel decides that her life has never been better.


	12. Blaise Zabini

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Waiting**

Pairing: Blaise Zabini/Primrose Potter (fem!HP).

As a first year, she makes an effort to learn her classmate's names. She remembers Blaise Zabini because he is the last to be sorted, with his olive skin and dark eyes and dark chocolate curls. There's something distinctly _pretty_ about him, and they never share a word. He's a Slytherin, she's a Gryffindor, and they simply do not mix.

Regardless, Primrose watches him, and she's not the only one.

In November of their 1st year, Parvati Patil declares that she's going to marry him one day.

Hermione Granger asks, scathingly, if Parvati's ever said a word to him.

That night, Lavender spikes Hermione's shampoo with balding solution.

Primrose, affectionately dubbed 'Pepper' for her red hair and initials, retaliates by short-sheeting the blonde's bed.

A small, petty prank war ensues.

It ends three months later, when Blaise Zabini and Tracey Davis hold hands all throughout Valentine's Day.

Parvati's heartbroken.

Prim is, too.

-!- -#-

They're 12, and the onset of puberty is exciting and horrifying all at once. Her classes are blessedly, comfortingly the same, but Neville Longbottom's somehow sprouted three inches over the holidays, Lavender wears a training bra, and Hermione bemoans tummy cramps every month. Pepper isn't sure she's ready for the changes headed her way.

This year, Parvati's besotted by Anthony Goldstein in Ravenclaw, with his green green eyes and curly black hair. He's Jewish, with German, Austrian, and Israeli origins, and they're soulmates.

It doesn't matter that Parvati's Hindu, or that they're in different houses, or that Lavender had a crush on him, first. They hold hands all year.

Prim still watches Blaise Zabini, and she finds that Blaise Zabini watches her right back.

He makes her heart race.

"You should talk to him," Hermione advises.

"

Primrose glances at the boy in question and turns away before he notices. "I'm waiting for him to talk to me, first."

That day can't arrive soon enough.

-!- -#-

While she's not allowed to go to Hogsmeade, everyone else is. Parvati goes with Anthony, Lavender with Seamus Finnigan. Ron Weasley and Hermione hurl insults at each other while they trek to the village side by side, and slumped against a tree by the lake, Primrose wistfully watches them go.

She's still sitting there, Arithmency textbook closed in her lap, when Blaise Zabini leaves the castle with Lisa Turpin on his arm.

She cries that night, and wishes she'd gone where the Sorting Hat had wanted to send her. That way, maybe it would be _her_ on Blaise Zabini's arm.

She can dream, anyway.

-!- #-

Even as Cedric Diggory makes her stomach flip, Primrose still watches Blaise Zabini. He's grown tall and lanky, and he is as pretty as ever, but he is confident and charming, and Primrose wonders about love.

Until Halloween, that is.

At that point, love is the last of her concerns.

After the Yule Ball, Lavender has sex with Seamus Finnigan, Hermione kisses Viktor Krum, and Parvati spends the night in Anthony Goldstein's bed.

Blaise Zabini makes Susan Bones see stars.

The last to start her monthlies, with only the slightest of curves, and completely uninteresting to the opposite gender, Primrose feels like a child.

As Blaise Zabini watches her, she wonders if that's all he sees.

-!- -#-

She grows into her curves over the summer, into an hourglass figure and a tiny waist. She is showered with compliments, but as her OWL's, as the threat of Voldemort, and as Delores Umbridge demands her attention, she doesn't notice.

Apparently, however, Blaise Zabini does.

Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom start courting. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson announce their betrothal. Katie Bell, at 17 years old, gets married over Yule.

Primrose Potter waits.

Sirius Black dies.

-!- -#-

She is emancipated that summer, named the Head of Houses Black and Potter. She is also inundated with paperwork for both roles, and it is only by the grace of Andromeda Tonks and Remus Lupin that Primrose doesn't drown herself in the backlog.

"You should consider a spouse," Andromeda advises, "It'll lighten your load, longterm."

"I'll think about it."

Predictably, she thinks about Blaise Zabini.

She wonders if this is the year he'll approach her, or if he'll stop watching her instead.

It turns out it's neither. Instead, they cross paths in a luncheon hosted by their new teacher, Professor H Slughorn, and control of the situation is taken out of their hands.

"And I'm sure you know Blaise Zabini, of course," Slughorn yammers away, and Primrose only listens with half an ear. The rest of her attention is on the Slytherin in question, and her heart thumps heavy in her chest. She offers him a smile, small and shy, but she does not speak, and neither does he.

Instead, Primrose listens as Blaise and Ginny exchange barbed insults behind a vernier of politeness, makes stilted smalltalk with Cormack McLaggen, and counts the minutes until she can leave.

When she finally does, the train's nearly reached Hogsmeade. She's grateful she'd thought to change into her uniform before the luncheon, because unlike Ginny, she doesn't have to scramble in order to be ready before they reach the station. Instead, she takes her time leaving the compartment, thoughts already on the feast ahead.

Outside one of the train windows, dusk has fallen over Northern Scotland, but Prim doesn't feel that same sense of anticipation as she had in years passed. She's older, a little wiser, and she's been let down by Hogwarts a little too many times to truly call it home.

Instead, home is Potter Manor, with Remus and Andromeda and the rest of her loved ones, surrounded by portraits of people with her riots hair, or smile, or ears or nose, with the house elves who dote on her and the all-encompassing, utterly comforting family magic that _Ysgarlad_ is practically saturated by.

It hasn't even been a day, and she already misses it terribly.

Blaise Zabini falls into step beside her, and Primrose is uncomfortably aware of his presence.

He clears his throat, she stops in the middle of the hallway, and waits curiously - hopefully - for him to speak.

"I was wondering," Blaise begins, "Are you taking any courtship offers?"

"I am," she confirms, "Are you offering?"

There's a moment of stillness, but then…

Blaise beams. It lights up his face. "Yes. I'm offering, if you'll have me."

She thumbs at the cuff on her wrist, carefully hiding the words she's worn since the age of 11, and answers, "I wouldn't refuse you."

Not when it's his words, his handprint, the colour of his eyes that adorn her wrist, not when he smiles like that, not when she's waited five years for him already.

"In that case, can I walk you to your compartment?"

Primrose accepts the arm he offers her. "I'd love the company."

Blaise asks her questions as they walk, she reciprocates as she answers, and for the time being, she doesn't worry about the war, about the house, about her responsibilities as the Lady of Houses Potter and Black. For the moment, everything else can wait.


	13. Terence Higgs

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Crossing Lines**

Pairing: Rose Potter (fem!Harry)/Terence Higgs.

After the ill-fated training session, and the whole vomiting slugs fiasco that followed, Rose separated herself from Hermione and Ron, and sought out Slytherin House's former seeker. She felt bad for him, ousted from his team because Draco Malfoy couldn't tolerate the fact Rose had something he didn't. It was stupid, with all the hallmarks of a spoiled, selfish brat getting his way (again) without any consideration for those left behind in the fallout, and she couldn't stand it.

As such, she wandered the halls near the dungeons, hopeful to encounter her quarry before someone encountered _her_ , and eventually found herself in a small, secluded lounge area illuminated by an orb of artificial sunlight.

Higgs was there, slouched in a seat by a false window, a battered copy of 'Quidditch Through the Ages' on his lap. He was alone, and Rose hesitated in the doorway, suddenly uncertain of whether or not she ought to disturb the older boy.

He must have heard her approach though, because he turned his head, arched a surprised eyebrow upon sight of her, and queried, "Can I help you?"

She inhaled sharply, surprised and hopeful and anxious all at once, and explained, "I wanted to apologise."

"What in Merlin's name for, Potter?" He asked, gestured her inside, and then waved a hand towards the armchair across from him. She sat gingerly, and he waited expectantly for her reply.

"Because Malfoy took your spot on the team, and that's not fair."

Higgs smiled sardonically. "Life's not fair. I figured you'd have realised that by now."

"I guess so," she acquiesced.

"Don't worry about it," he said, expression softer, "And definitely don't apologise for something that's not your fault."

Rose smiled sheepishly, but didn't bother attempting to justify her actions. She wanted to ask him if she'd said his words, as he'd said hers, but she couldn't figure out a way that wasn't outrageously rude, or invasive, or both. She was also reluctant to outstay her welcome, and she wondered if Higgs wanted her to leave.

"If it's any consolation, he clearly doesn't have the talent if he had to buy his way onto the team."

"Too bad money can't buy you everything," Higgs glibly replied.

"Quite," she agreed. "I'll be sure to trounce him for you."

Higgs smirked. "I'm looking forward to it."

-!- -#-

After a week of shared glances in the hallways between classes, of surreptitious smiles across the Great Hall, of constantly wondering if he was, or if he wasn't, Rose found herself in the library, labouring over a Transfiguration essay she could do without. Higgs sought her out there, settled in the seat across the table from her, and produced his Ancient Runes homework from his messenger bag. He didn't pick up his quill, however, and when she looked, it appeared as though starting his work was the last thing he wanted to do.

Rose could relate.

"Hi," she greeted, her quill poised over a piece of loose parchment. "Long day?"

"Something like that."

"Do you care to share, or…?"

Higgs sighed deeply. "It's not important. Just wondering why I thought it would be a good idea to choose Ancient Runes and Arithmency as my electives."

"They're hard work?"

"The hardest," he confirmed. "Interesting, mind you, but also intensive."

"I'll be sure to remember that."

Rose wasn't Hermione. She didn't love school, didn't care to learn for the sake of learning, but she _did_ understand that knowledge is power. As such, she worked hard in her classes, worked harder outside of them, and ignored Ron's attempts to derail her focus.

"You should take this year to think about what you want out of your time at Hogwarts," Higgs advised, "Things get serious next year. Shit gets real, you know?"

Rose nodded tentatively. She had listened to, and observed, the older students, and the Slytherin had more or less hit the nail on the head where third year was concerned. It was all about career possibilities, family allegiances, personal ideologies and relationships, and the culmination of everything was terrifying to consider.

If she was honest with herself, Rose wasn't sure she'd be able to cope with the pressure.

"Don't worry," Higgs assured, "You'll be just fine."

And for some ridiculous reason, she actually believed him.

-!- -#-

Even with a broken arm, she kicked Draco Malfoy's arse on the quidditch pitch.

It was exceedingly satisfying, but with Lockhart's utter incompetence, the thrill didn't last. Instead, she found herself bundled up in a bed in the hospital wing, the skelegrow in her system a dull roar up her arm, and Terence Higgs at her bedside.

"I think you're my new hero," Higgs declared.

Rose blushes. "It was nothing."

"I wish you could have seen the tantrum in the Slytherin common room," Terence said, "It was golden. Probably the highlight of my year, second only to that game."

Madam Pomfrey gave her a smoothie in lieu of dinner, and Rose got to know Terence beyond quidditch. He was a half-blood, like her, born to a minor noble family, and he was pretty sure he wanted to be a healer when he finished school.

"That's a long way away though," he said, "A lot can change in four years."

"I guess so," she agreed.

Before they could talk further, the hospital wing was inundated by Gryffindors. Higgs got to his feet, squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek, and promised to see her the following day. Rose blushed, Terence did too, and she watched him go with butterflies in her belly.

"What was he doing here?" Ron asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Hermione answered, "He likes her."

"But he's a Slytherin."

Rose didn't mention the fact that he may or may not have said her words, struck with the realisation that she didn't care. It would be nice, of course, but it would also be nice to get to know him _beyond_ the expectations of soulmates. With that in mind, she fell asleep, a smile on her face. Deboned arm aside, it was a good day.


	14. Viktor Krum

**Handprint On My Heart**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Note:** This one features a fem!Harry born in 77.

 **Drifting**

 **Pairing:** Violette (fem!Harry)/Viktor Krum

Durmstrang Institute is all Violette Potter expects of it, and then some. It's demanding, it's gruelling, and the competition between students is utterly cutthroat, and she is having the time of her life. She is in classrooms with others whom, like her, have always been the smartest, most talented students in the room, and it is a rush to keep up with them, to strive to _outshine_ them, to be pushed to be more, to be better, to be the very best.

Other students don't feel the same. Twelve of them transfer out by Samhain. Among them, the only other student originally from Britain. She's a lifelong friend of Violette's, and it's a wrench to see her go.

"I'm sorry, Lettie," Ursa Black says. She's crying. "This isn't what I want. I'm not a fighter like you."

"It's all right," Violette answers. She understands. "Where will you go?"

Ursa makes an attempt to compose herself. "There's a place open for me at Beauxbatons. I start on Monday. I'll be taking the advanced classes, so if I play my cards right, I should be finished by the end of next year."

"I'll miss you," Violette says, "You'll have to write me."

"Of course I will, and there's always Yule, too. It's not that far away now."

"Seems like it."

In some respects, Violette feels closer to Ursa than she does with her own siblings. They'd both attended lower secondary school in the Netherlands from the age of 10, far from their families and with only each other to rely on. It'll be strange not to have Ursa at her side, but if she's honest with herself, Violette can't say she's particularly surprised by her friend's choice. Ursa's a healer at heart, and no doubt, Durmstrang Institute's increased emphasis on Martial Arts is a strain on her soul.

It was different in the Netherlands, when the lower secondary students had the opportunity to study a variety of fields, but there's a reason the upper secondary school - the one everyone else pictures when they think of Durmstrang - is notoriously difficult to get accepted into.

"It'll fly by, I hope," Ursa chuckles wetly. They share a tight, fierce hug. "Kick arse, Lettie."

"Likewise, Black," Violette answers.

Ursa steps away from Violette, shoulders the strap of her satchel, and then activates the portkey clasped in her other hand. She disappears a moment later, and Violette lingers, bereft.

-!- -#-

Durmstrang culture doesn't particularly inspire friendship. Not in the early years, anyway. She's told it will change in her last two years, when students are able to pursue their own scholastic and/or martial interests, when they've adapted to the Norwegian culture that dictates Rossøya, but alas, that's still two years away. In the mean time, Violette resigns herself to a lonely couple of years.

As it is wont to do, time passes. Violette focuses on her education, thriving under the fast-paced tutelage of her teachers. Her best subjects are Charms, Transfiguration, and Ancient Runes, but she's reasonably competent in Potions and Herbology, which is all she can really ask for where they're concerned. She improves as a duelist, as a martial artist, as a quidditch player, as well, and she is content. It is such that before she knows it, she is 15 years old, has just sat Durmstrang's equivalent of the Hogwarts NEWT exams, and she is at a loss. She has decisions to make now, questions about what she intends to do next, and her parents expect to hear what she's decided as soon as she returns home.

Of course, the only issue with that is the fact Violette hasn't made any plans beyond her exams. Her teachers have insinuated that there are apprenticeships waiting for her, if she wants them, but there is also the prospect of heading straight into employment with Gringott's, and obtaining her masteries 'on the job', as it were. There's also a vacancy in her father's workshop, if she wants it, learning the art of enchanting from him, among other things. Moreover, there are a variety of quidditch teams chomping at the bit to have her sign on with them, and as such, Violette is at a loss.

Perhaps predictably, she finds herself hovering over the quidditch pitch, stretched out along her Nimbus 2000, staring at the field below. It's her happy place, where she goes to think, or to clear her head, or simply to relax after a tough day. It's a trait she's inherited from her father, and most of a continent away, the fact gives her comfort.

It is, also, where Viktor Krum encounters her. He's something of a rival, a phenomenal seeker, and duelist, and student. Despite this, however, they've never said a word to each other. He sticks to himself mostly, much the same as VIolette in that regard, and neither of them have felt inclined to disrupt the status quo.

Until now, that is. Perhaps it's because, with the end of their education, a lot of them are heading their separate ways, to jobs and betrothals and familial expectations, and beneath all those scowls, Viktor Krum is a sentimental old sap. Perhaps it's because she's disrupting his airspace, or perhaps it's something else entirely.

Either way, Krum floats up and drifts lazily around her, a mild frown on his face. " _Are you well?_ "

Violette almost falls off her broom, surprised by the enquiry. It's in Norwegian, predictably, but what is so astounding is the fact that they're the words scrawled out on her wrist in stark black cursive.

Oddly enough, and despite the two years she's already lived on Rossøya, it's the firs time she's been asked.

As she sits up on her broom, Violette thinks, briefly, of lying, of answering with a polite ' _I'm well, thank you, and yourself?_ ' but she changes her mind. If Krum is her soulmate, than he can probably take the truth. If not, than she'll probably never have reason to talk to him again.

" _I've had better days, to be honest._ "

Krum jolts, his broom jerks, and it takes him a minute to right himself. He's surprised, as much as VIolette herself, and it leaves him speechless.

She smiles somewhat sheepishly, drifts over to him, and queries, " _Are you all right?_ "

He shakes himself, nods briefly, and assures, " _I am well. Just surprised. I did not expect that._ "

Her smile is rueful. " _Yeah, you and me both._ "

" _I apologise,_ " Viktor hesitates briefly, " _You said you have had better days. What is wrong?_ "

And despite herself, Violette talks, and talks, and talks. It's cathartic, a load off her chest she had not realised she was carrying, and all the while, they loop around each other, lazy and slow and careless. As they do, Viktor listens to her intently, and he doesn't speak until she is done.

" _You must do what makes you happy._ "

When she asks, Viktor outlines his plan to pursue a Quidditch career while he works on a duel apprenticeship in Charms and Transfiguration. And that, the knowledge that he'll be at Durmstrang for the next two years (at least), makes her decision a whole lot easier.

She's not absolutely certain yet, but the thought of joining him - her soulmate - back at Durmstrang in the autumn? It's a tempting one.

 **Author's Note:** This is set in an AU world I've built for a fic I haven't written, which is why VIolette attends school in the Netherlands and finishes her standard education at the end of her canon fifth year…

Anyway, a couple of notes: Rossøya is an island in the Arctic Ocean, the northern most part of the Kingdom of Norway. Also, all Italics are spoken Norwegian.

Thanks for reading. Seriously, the interest in these little ficlets is surreal. Until next time -t.


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